


the warmth that keeps me here

by ristra



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ristra/pseuds/ristra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Villa will never get over this. Will never get over how lucky, so lucky, he is to have found and kept this… something with someone like Silva. Something he can't put into words, something more than easy companionship, beyond instinctive understanding, not quite the way Villa couldn't say those three coveted words to anyone before Silva. Well, whatever. Villa’s just lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the warmth that keeps me here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> (UGH. I'M SUCH AN IDIOT. I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE FIRST POSTING OF THIS FIC WHEN I TRIED TO EDIT THE TAGS. Thankfully, I took a screenshot of your lovely comments before I went and. Deleted. It. But you can comment again, if you like. <3)
> 
> In response to this prompt on the [Footy Ficathon.](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=850621#t850621)  
> (This is my first try, KEYWORD: TRY, at writing fic, so by all means slam me with all your scalding critiques and flailing compliments. It is appreciated.)

Olaya's holding up a stuffed whale, white-bellied and glass-eyed. Silva's trying to gently lead her back toward the shelf she picked it from but she's not having any of it.

"Papa," Olaya looks up at him, wobbly lip and everything.

Silva says, very firmly, "No. Olaya. Don't you already have two, um, whales?"

"Cris and Karim are dolphins. Gareth is a shark." Olaya deepens her frown, like, obviously.

She's named it already. Jesus.

Silva steels his resolve. He’s dealt with this before. Once he puts his foot down, Olaya will relent. Thank god, she's not the type to throw apoplectic fits when she can't get what she wants.

Silva's thinking, he's got this one in the bag, no issue, when Villa rounds the corner, dumping an extra large pack of diapers into the cart.

 _Hijo de puta_ , his sense of timing.

"Okay, they didn't have the one we usually get so I got..." Villa looks down at Olaya who’s cuddling the shark plush and doing her Bambi Eyes. " _Corazoncito_ , what's wrong?"

Olaya's lip trembles. Silva knows when a battle is lost and resigns himself to rolling his eyes.

"Papa won't let me have Gareth," Olaya says quietly. She grabs Villa's finger with her sticky paw, wiping her eyes with the shark in her other hand, adding a sniffle for good measure. Villa’s eyes go soft.

Silva resolutely rolls the cart forward. He can't watch.

Villa tries, at least. Silva can give him that much. "Why did Papa say no?"

Olaya side-eyes Silva. "He said I had too many. But Cris and Karim need friends, right?"

She goes back to staring at Villa with wide, liquid eyes. Silva can feel Villa's pleading gaze boring into his back.

He shrugs.

"Yes, they do," Villa carefully tucks the shark (Gareth, Silva thinks, disbelievingly) back under her arm. Olaya grins toothily.

"Weak," Silva grumbles as Villa falls into step with him, still clutching Olaya's hand. Villa gives a noncommittal raise of his shoulders, lopsidedly smiling at his ( _their_ , Silva thinks, a bit distantly) Olaya.

(A nameless muscle clenches faintly, tenderly, stuttering at the bottom of his heart.)

 

\--

 

“Silva……”

“……no.”

“C’mon. Hey. Silva. Silva.”

Silva drops the ergonomically designed sippy cup into the trolley and rolls it forward, only stopping to add another teething ring (BPA-free, of course). He carefully contemplates the benefits of a play mat.

"Silva -"

A pink, squishy, VERY LARGE pig manifests two inches away from Silva's face.

Villa squeezes it imploringly. A canned soundtrack of oinks and delighted snorts plays through the pig's nostrils.

Silva’s field of vision shifts and then Villa’s right up in his face, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, nodding excitedly. Silva can feel whatever argument he'd been preparing dissipate.

Silva pinches the bridge of his nose. He says, a token protest, really, “Villa, we’re supposed to be the grown-ups here."

Villa stares. "What?"

Silva says, as though speaking to a small child, but it's weak and he knows it. "You know, we came here to stock up on things Luca needs, like diapers and child-proofing things and baby food and formula and not another toy which, by the way, he has enough of to build a small hill with -”

Villa ignores that and squeezes the toy pig again. A slightly different soundtrack of pig sounds plays.

Silva caves completely. "Alright, give it here."

Villa drops the pig into the trolley, a smug grin stretching itself across his face, like he's won something, even though it's only a damn toy pig. (Silva feels a bit lightheaded; Villa's smiles always did that to him, had done that to him when -)

"Luca will be very happy."

Silva coughs to hide the deepening flush staining his cheeks. "Huh. You're getting this for Luca?"

Villa withdraws his hand as if stung. "What do you mean by that?"

Silva bites back a smile. "I thought - well. If you liked it so much you should've just gotten it for yourself, no need to explain anything -"

Villa narrows his eyes. His soul patch quivers in indignation before he settles for grinding out weakly, "I have no idea what you - "

"Okay, Villa." Silva says, still smiling.

"No, seriously, what the fuck are you getting at -"

"Nothing, nothing! I didn't mean anything by it," Silva's full on grinning by now, wheeling the cart away and ducking his head so Villa doesn't see.

 

\--

 

They have a fight, their biggest in years. Savage, short, avoidable, really fucking stupid, the same routine. There’s a pattern, somewhere, Silva doesn’t really want to think about it.

Silva works late, chasing a deadline, and comes home exhausted out of his mind. He can't make out the keys in the dim yellow light, and tries four of them before letting his head fall against the door. He regrets it immediately; not because of how his head is throbbing right now, but because the resulting thump will surely wake their kids, who are hard enough to put to bed as it is.

He curses and tries the door again, out of pure frustration. To his surprise, the door gives way easily enough. Huh. He's been trying keys on an already unlocked door for the past 20 minutes.

Silva kind of wants to bang his head against the door again, but he settles for a tired grunt and pushes into the apartment. Villa must have left the door open when he didn't show after midnight.

Silva kicks off his shoes and puts a pack of instant kimchi ramen on the boil, not even bothering to halve the seasoning like he usually does. He doesn't wait for the noodles to cool before pouring them into a bowl and shoveling them down his throat, burning his tongue but he's kind of beyond caring at this point.

He's putting the cutlery on the rack when arms encircle his waist. He focuses on not breaking any of the crockery before carefully turning around so Villa's arms are still around him but his nose brushes Villa's jaw, breathing in the scent there (heady, salty, Villa. Or maybe it's the Hugo Boss cologne that Villa's been wearing since the day they met - but whatever, it's Villa, and it's Silva's.)

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Silva replies, feeling Villa's smile grow where it's pressed against his cheek.

Villa lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper when he says, "So I was thinking, right, the kids are asleep - and we haven’t done anything in a week -"

Silva bursts into laughter. He shoves at Villa's chest (though his other hand is still firmly encircled around Villa's wrist), his voice rising to a squeak at the end when he chokes out a "Oh my god, no, I have to wake up at 6 tomorrow -"

Villa's body is an insistent line, pressing Silva to the granite counter (which he'd just wiped down, Silva's brain supplies hazily) and Silva can feel his smirk growing, buried in Silva's hair where -

"I got the promotion."

Silva gasps and turns his head so he can see Villa. "Hey! Oh my god, that's fantastic!" Silva says, excited because this is what Villa's been talking about, working towards, been deserving of -

"They want me to head the branch in Barcelona, Silva, can you believe it?" and Silva goes cold, feels a stony finger of dread working its way down his throat. He can sense, not see, his knuckles turning white where they've gripped the counter of their own accord.

Silva doesn't want Villa to take the job. It's still in Spain, sure, but it's - different. Different people, different places and probably a different job. The culture is so different, so unlike Gran Canaria or Valencia. Silva doesn’t even speak a single word of Catalan and he’s never been particularly adept at new languages - so there’s that.

He likes where he is now. Silva's never really been one for pulling out himself out by the roots and settling somewhere else, easy, because Silva can't do that, can't plant himself in different soil and forget about his old life, can't look at the sea on the horizon from a different angle and think: this is my home, now.

He did this once before, threw his old life away for Villa, before they got married, and it was hard. Even now, he’s not so sure he fits here, still misses the sharp salt scent of the ocean, unending stretch of white sand, and miles of green in the backdrop. He likes it fine, sure - but he’s not sure he’ll like Barcelona.

“Do you - do you want to take it?” Silva swallows the queasy feeling in his throat to ask.

Villa must sense his reluctance, because he takes a step back. Silva still can’t breathe easily, feels crowded in.

“What do you mean?”

“Villa - I - we just moved here, six years ago -”

“What do you mean?” Villa repeats.

“I don’t want - I don’t think you should take it.” His stomach lurches with an irrational fear, that Villa will go anyway, even if he stays.

“Why?” Villa demands, “I thought you’d be happy, fuck -”

“I am happy!” Silva’s says, a half-shout. “I’m happy, I’m happy for you -”

Villa snaps, “What’s the fucking problem, then?”

“I don’t - I hate - I won’t move to Barcelona.” Silva says, fear curdling into something sharper, anger stirring in the pit of his stomach. His movements are jerky as he brushes his bangs out of his eyes.

Villa spits out, brutally, “You’re being irrational, Silva -”

Somehow, that stings more than anything. Like whatever he’s just said is - just stupid. Like what he’s saying - feeling - doesn’t matter. Maybe Villa didn’t say that, but it sure fucking sounded like he meant it. Silva curls his fists -

“I’m not moving to Barcelona.” Silva bites out.

“I am.”

“Fuck.” Silva wants to throw up. He could just give in, acquiesce, but he won’t. He’s _done_. Done giving in, giving up everything for Villa. He wouldn’t mind so much, except for the fucking fact that Villa never quite seems to give as much as he does.

Villa spits out, “What the fuck do you want, Silva? Want me to give up my fucking career for you? What the fuck do you want -”

What does _he_ want? Like he’s a kid, whinging and kicking up a fuss in the store, like he needs to be babied, _what the fuck does he want -_

Silva refuses to look at him. “I need,” He says, voice soft, unsteady. “I -”

This time, Silva’s the first to turn and run out the door. He’s _done_. _He’s fucking done._

*

Silva texts the babysitter to take the girls to school in the morning. Then he gets in the car and drives.

*

“Ungh, Silva? What the hell?” Raúl opens the door, hair smooshed and standing up on one side.

“Uh," Silva scrubs one hand through his hair. "Hey. Uh, I need a place to crash." God, how he must look right now.

Raúl, bless him, just opens the door wider to let Silva slide in past him.

*

Fuck, fuck. Villa drags a hand down his face. All the righteous anger in his body left him when Silva took off. Now he’s just tired.

 _Why the fuck did he say that?_ Every bone in his body is screaming at him to run after Silva, but the only thing Silva probably wants is his space.

Distantly, Villa hears a car start.

*

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Raúl says, from where he’s piling blankets on the couch.

Silva’s freshly showered, in a pair of Raúl’s sweatpants and one of his company t-shirts that says, _“I’M AN ENGINEER. TO SAVE TIME LET’S JUST ASSUME I’M NEVER WRONG.”_ It’s way too big, hanging off one shoulder, but Silva’s not complaining.

He hops up onto the armrest. “Villa and I had a fight.”

“No shit,” Raúl laughs.

Silva swipes at him lazily. “It was really stupid. I just need time to cool off.”

“Mm,” Raúl hums, fluffing up a pillow. He doesn’t push. Silva’s grateful for that, but he ends up telling him anyway. They’ve been best friends for as long as Silva can remember having one; there’s not much he can hide.

Silva rambles a bit; tries to be as objective as possible. Raúl’s quiet when he finishes.

“Villa’s always wanted more in his career, Silva, you know that. He deserves it, too.” Raúl says, slowly.

“Fuck, yeah, I know that,” Silva groans.

“Not that you’re wrong,” Raúl adds. “you know.” He stands up to switch off the hall light. “You guys just need to talk it out. When you both have well-rested, functioning brains.”

Silva exhales into the darkness.

“If you honestly think Villa will leave you for _Barcelona_ , Silva -”

“Yeah, I know,” Silva does.

*

In the morning, Silva dials home. Zaida picks up.

“Papa!” She yells happily down the phone line. “Where are you? Daddy made your favourite french toast for breakfast.”

Silva’s throat closes up. “Uh, Papa had to go to work early today. Tell Daddy,” Silva swallows. “Tell him I’ll be back by seven, latest.”

“You can tell him yourself!” Zaida says. Silva hears someone ask, “Zaida, who’s on the line?” in the background. _Fuck_. Silva’s not sure he’s ready. There’s a pause as the phone is being handed over, then -

“Silva?”

He takes a deep breath. “Villa. Listen, uh -”

“Yeah,” Villa says softly. “Come home - come home early, okay?”

“Yeah.”

*

Silva steps into the house at six. He’s almost knocked over by the force of two small brunette hurricanes who attach themselves to his legs.

“Papa!” They beam up at him.

“Hello,” Silva gives them a hug. “How was your day?”

“Great! We learned about plants and -”

Then Villa walks into the living room, bouncing Luca lightly on his shoulder. The way his face lights up - everything else fades into white noise. The apprehension Silva didn’t know was boiling away in his gut disappears.

“Hello,” Villa says, mouth turned up at the corners. An apology.

“Hello,” Silva repeats. He gets it.

*

Later - after the kids are tucked up in bed - they watch some soap on TV, but Silva’s not really paying attention to what they’re saying.

Then Villa’s pulling Silva into his arms. "I don't have to take it," Villa says, slightly muffled by Silva's hair. "I thought about it; I'm actually pretty happy with what I have right now - "

Silva feels relief course through his limbs, sagging a bit against the couch.

"You sure?" he asks.

“I know why you don’t like moving. I get it,” Villa says, kissing the corner of his eye.

They’re quiet for a while, watching some lady in the procedural lash out at her good-for-nothing son.

"And - I want Zaida and Olaya and Luca to grow up here, you know, at least until they're a little bit older. I'd worry that they won't know where they should be."

Silva turns to stare at him. "You've thought about this."

Villa shrugs, colours a little. "They'll know about Valencia, and maybe sometimes we'll take them here for a trip. There might be memory at least - but a loyalty - I don't know." Villa scrubs at his forehead, squinting at Silva, willing him to understand.

Silva does.

But he's feeling kind of masochistic, so he prods some more. "But you could always go, and leave the kids here with me," Silva has no idea what possesses him to ask that, but he still wants to hear Villa's answer.

Villa must get it because he pretends to think about it before saying, "I guess I'd miss seeing Xavi and Iker's grumpy mugs at 7 everyday - "

"Just Xavi and Iker's?" Silva hedges, shifting so he’s straddling Villa and holding down his hips.

Villa scratches his chin nonchalantly, but the way his breathing picks up is enough of a clue. "I suppose I'd miss Pepe too - "

“Smartass,” Silva says, without any heat, into Villa’s mouth. He shifts purposefully against Villa and is rewarded by a breathless litany of curses. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

He does.

 

\--

 

Villa arrives at the park at 4 p.m., finds a parking space and texts Pepe.

**_Hey, I’m here at the park. Don’t tell Silva yet, it’s a surprise. Where are the kids?_ **

Barely 5 seconds pass before Pepe replies.

_**guaje!!!! ur here omg i thot u wrnt coming???? grecia n zaida n olaya r at th playground wit yoyo im at the pavilion wit silva n luca** _

_**My boss let us off early. When will you stop typing like a tween drunk off their ass?** _

_**whn u stop typin lk my dad l.ol….** _

Villa pockets his phone and jogs over to the sandy playground where the kids are already red-faced and screaming.

“Daddy!” Olaya yells and somersaults off the structure (almost causing Villa’s premature death in the process). She barrels right at him, almost knocking him off his feet. Villa oofs and picks her up, setting her on his hip. Zaida soon follows and clings to Villa’s legs like a koala.

"Villa!" Yolanda beams. Grecia Reina peeks out from behind her mother, suddenly shy. Villa wiggles his fingers at her and she tentatively waves back.

“We’re playing cops and robbers!” Zaida says, bouncing up and down. “Wanna play?”

Which is how Villa ends up running around the playground, pretending to chase down the kids as they yell and duck under the structure as he points finger guns at their retreating backs. Thankfully, the girls get tired of this game soon enough and decide to play in the sandbox, allowing Villa time to catch his breath. Yolanda laughs outright when he bends over, bracing himself on his knees.

“They run you ragged, yeah?” She grins.

Villa nods, too winded to say anything.

**_His phone vibrates with a new text alert._ **

_**omg villa u bttr get ur ass ovr here** _

_**What happened?** _

_**thrs some dude with us who walked by n strted cooing at luca n tlking to silva abt baby stuff….** _

_**So?** _

_**lolooololl i don think its luca hes intrstd in…….** _

Villa frowns at his phone, typing faster.

_**Does he not see the ring?? You’re right there tell him!** _

_**idk but its not my place to tell :PP omg i jst hrd him say smthg abt “showing him a few things” omgg gggg villa hurry come defend ur hubby’s honour!!!!!** _

**_Fuck you pepe_ **

 

\--

 

Despite what Pepe says, Silva knows how to take care of himself and doesn’t need Villa to “defend his honour” or anything like that. Pepe is being ridiculous. That being said, Villa’s definitely more anxious to go see Silva than he was before he had that dumb conversation with Pepe. Fucking Pepe, honestly.

The sun sets faster than Villa realises and Yolanda decides that the kids need to be back home for dinner. Villa hoists his daughters onto his back and goes over to the pavilion where Silva and Luca (and Pepe) are. (Thankfully, there's no strange man in sight, Villa observes, feeling a little stupid for it but satisfied nonetheless.)

Silva, nattering away at Luca, rocking him gently in the pram, the last bit of the skylight catching the edges of his eyelashes and disappearing below the angle of his cheekbones. Silva and the dusting of cinnamon-y freckles over his profile and the way the light bends around him, making space as he bends his head, chews his lip and adjusts the hood of the pram. Silva in a worn, soft-looking shirt, collar dotted with ratty holes, that was probably once Villa’s but Villa can’t really remember (he likes the thought of it, though). Silva with his crooked grin and bright teeth, dark eyes (the darkest he has ever seen) and feathery hair, and dimples (goddamn _dimples_!).

Maybe Villa will never get over this. Will never get over how lucky, so lucky, he is to have found and kept this… something with someone like Silva. Something he can't put into words, something more than easy companionship, beyond instinctive understanding, not quite the way Villa couldn't say those three coveted words to anyone before Silva. Well, whatever. Villa’s just lucky.

Zaida and Olaya are yelling for their Papa before Villa can even greet him himself. Silva looks up from Luca, eyes widening in surprise before pulling up at the edges in a smile that eclipses the sun. Objectively speaking

Villa's definitely not smiling like an idiot, never mind Pepe who's wiggling his ridiculous eyebrows and yelling at him to "go easy on the heart eyes, _por el amor de Dios_ , there are children around". Villa yells back at him to "shut the firetruck up". (There are children around, after all.)

The girls tug on Villa’s shirt, willing him to put them down. They take off running toward Silva once their feet touch the ground. Silva bends down to scoop them onto the bench, giving each a kiss on the cheek as he does so.

"You're here," Silva says, patting the space next to him.

Villa sits down, shrugging. "Simeone let me go home early."

And then Silva's got one hand on Villa's cheek (5 o'clock shadow and all) and leaning in. It's a light pressure that Villa still chases even as Silva pulls back, grinning a little.

"We have to go home for dinner, you know." Silva says, standing up, before turning to Zaida and Olaya, holding out his hands for them to take. He bends down to whisper lowly in Villa's ear. "We can continue later. I haven't had a shower yet."

Villa can't resist planting another kiss on those lips before Zaida starts yelling, can they kiss at home instead, she's hungry and wants churros.

"She's been spending too much time with Pepe," Villa grumbles against Silva's lips, but he's smiling.

"No churros," Silva lifts his head to yell back.

 

\--

 

"How was your day, sweetheart?" Villa asks as he leans over to help Olaya cut up her slab of chicken.

"Okay," Olaya says. "Oh! I did this in school today," She puts down her fork, scrabbling around in her pocket before producing a folded piece of green paper, smoothing it out until there's a drawing of 5 bears in varying sizes. 2 of them are wearing ties, one of which has a small dark smear under its chin.

"What's that?" Villa asks, pointing at it.

Silva pauses in trying to feed Luca his smashed bananas to lean over the table and take a look at Olaya's masterpiece.

"A soul patch, obviously," Silva quirks an eyebrow at Villa, wearing a positively shit-eating grin. He sits back down and tries to coax the spoon into Luca's mouth again.

"Yup!" Olaya says, giggling, pointing to the bear with the mouche - "that's you," - the bear without the mouche - "that's Papa," - the bear clutching a flower - "me," - the bear with the red bow between its ears, - "Zaida," - the smallest bear with a pacifier in its snout - "and Luca."

“It’s beautiful.” Villa tacks it on the fridge door with smiley-face magnets. Olaya preens happily.

"How about you, Zaida?" Villa goes back to the table and resumes cutting up Olaya's food into chunks. "Anything interesting you learned at school today?"

"School was okay I guess," Zaida mumbles. "We learnt about uh, bugs.” She pokes at her vegetables. "José was mean. Again." She viciously spears a hapless potato.

Silva sends Villa a look from across the table, when was this? Did you know about it?

Villa frowns back. No.

"José? What did he do?" Silva asks carefully.

"He's gross." Zaida shrugs. "He always spits in my pencil case and steals my ball during P.E. and blames me when our class loses."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since last week." She stares down at her plate.

"Does Mr Guardiola know?" Villa asks.

"If I told, everyone would know I'm a crybaby who only knows how to run to teachers for help." Zaida says, witheringly. She arches one brow. (Silva is almost struck by how much she is like her Daddy, ego-driven logic and all.)

"Zaida," Silva starts.

"I'm not a crybaby, Pa," Zaida says, insistent, back to cutting up her potatoes. "I can handle one dumb bully."

Silva tries to let it go.

 

\--

 

Silva's finishing his fifth cup of coffee (it's only 11, shit) when the call comes.

“Oi, Silvita, for you,” Alexis leans through the open door to Silva’s office, one hand over the receiver.

“What,” Silva monotones, elbows deep in work editing Mata's article (two days late and unformatted).

“It’s about… Zaida?” Alexis motions at the phone on his desk. Silva’s stomach plummets instinctively.

“Hello?” He says, gingerly.

“Mr Silva? This is Zaida’s teacher, Mr Guardiola.” Silva remembers him as a kind-faced man in a weird love affair with stylishly crumpled suits and v-necks, never mind that he teaches 5 year olds. “There’s been an incident…”

Silva nearly chokes on his tongue. “An incident?”

“Nothing too serious, but I hope you can take some time off to come down?”

“What happened - is she hurt?” Silva demands, in a rush.

“Oh! Oh, Zaida’s not hurt. No one’s hurt.” Guardiola coughs. “Not much, anyway.”

Silva, whose heart beat had slowed for a bit before going into overdrive again, chokes out, “Not much?”

Guardiola coughs, again. “Look, Mr Silva, it’s nothing serious, Zaida’s completely fine - but - I’d appreciate it if you’d just come down.”

“But -” Silva forces himself to sound calm. “Okay. Okay.” He looks at the wall clock. Zaida’s school is a district away. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Silva hangs up without waiting for a reply and dials Villa.

 

-

 

Villa breaks the speed limit by a clean 20km/h. He nearly sprints into the school but pauses when he hears Silva call out from behind him.

They silently find their way to her classroom. Zaida’s sitting on a pink plastic bench outside, picking at her shoes.

“Zaida!” Villa scoops her into his arms. “Are you okay?”

“Daddy,” Zaida yells, muffled into Villa’s shoulder. She turns and launches herself at Silva. “Papa! I’m sorry!”

Silva shushes her, kissing her cheek. “You’re alright.” He says, an assurance to nobody in particular.

At that moment, Guardiola pokes his head out of the classroom. He smiles politely at them, offering his hand to shake. “Now that you’re here, please come with me.” They follow him into a tiny office along the corridor, holding onto Zaida’s hands tightly.

Guardiola motions at two uncomfortable looking chairs and waits until they’ve sat before taking a seat himself. Zaida perches on Villa’s knees.

“There’s been an incident with a boy today.” Guardiola starts gingerly, fingers laced together on the desk.

“The boy who bullies Zaida? Spits in her things? José?” Silva says, so sharply that Guardiola looks taken aback for a moment.

“Yes. I suppose she’s told you about him then.”

“She told us last month. Sounds like he hasn’t stopped.” Silva’s voice rises a bit, almost to a snarl. “And you haven’t done anything about it?”

“What happened?” Villa reaches across to pull Silva’s tightly clenched hands apart, feeling him relax a bit, but not much.

“Well, it was play time. So the kids were out in the field, playing football. Zaida and José were on opposing teams, I think, and suddenly a small fight broke out and from what the other kids told me, José pushed Zaida to the ground. She hit him and that’s when one of the teachers managed to pull them apart.” Guardiola frowns. “I’m afraid - if something like this happens again - I cannot allow this kind of behaviour in our school. Zaida might have to leave if this continues.”

“And the boy?” Silva asks.

“I’ve already spoken to José about his behaviour. His parents were called down and I’ve told them about his bullying ways.” Guardiola says.

“That’s not enough,” Silva snaps.

“That is all we can do. He will also have to go if his violent behaviour repeats. I trust his parents to discipline him." Guardiola says, calmly.

Silva looks like he's about to leap out of his chair and slap him across his face.

"We understand," Villa says quickly, before Silva does something regrettable, like murder.

Silva stands up. "You make sure that boy stays away from my daughter and the other kids. If I hear anything about this again - anything -" Silva growls. "I'll be right here in this office, demanding answers -"

"Thank you for calling us down, Mr Guardiola," Villa says politely, shifting Zaida to one hip and nudging Silva out of the office.

"Not a problem, Mr Villa, Mr Silva," Guardiola smiles. "Goodbye, Zaida."

"Bye, Mr Guardiola," Zaida mumbles.

Villa closes the door behind himself and ushers Silva out into the parking lot. Silva's crossing his arms in stony-faced silence.

"Sorry, Papa," Zaida says quietly, staring at her feet.

Silva's expression softens. He squats down till he's eye level with Zaida. "Did he hurt you?"

"Nope," Zaida says. "He got a big ugly bruise on his cheek though, right here." Her face shines with something like vindictive pride before she tries to school it back into remorse.

"Zaida, you can't just -" Silva sighs, scrubbing a hand through his head. "You can't hit people. Even if they're being mean. You have to take the higher road -"

Behind him, Villa muffles a cough into his hand.

Silva glares daggers at the face Villa pulls.

He turns back to Zaida. "If anything, Zaida, you shouldn't hit back at José 'cause you'll get caught as well and that's what he wants. He wants to make you mad, make you punch him so you get in trouble too. And you never give the bully what he wants. Okay?"

"Okay, Papa."

Silva pulls her in for another hug. "Let's go home."

*

Later, Villa whispers, "Take the high road, eh? What exactly happened to Mr Podolski, then?"

Silva whispers back, defensively, "I couldn't exactly tell her to go back to school and beat the crap out of that boy, could I? No matter how much he deserves it for trying to mess with our daughter."

Villa laughs and laughs. He leans forward to kiss the growing frown off Silva's face.

 

\--

 

Villa’s still awake in their bed at midnight, proofreading through some drafts, laptop perched on his knees and Silva’s head resting on his chest. Silva’s half-awake, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“I can turn off the lights, if you want,” Villa says.

“No, it’s 'kay, you need ‘em,” Silva mumbles, face half buried in Villa’s chest.

"Nah, it's fine," Villa says, reaching for the switch. "I'll go finish up in the living room."

Silva stills his hand, wrapping fingers around his wrist.

"Stay," Silva mumbles, sleepily. "I don't mind."

“Fine. I’m almost done, anyway.” Villa cards a hand through his feathery bangs, ruffles it. Silva turns his face to glare at him, but his features, soft in sleep, look childish instead. He swats at his hand.

“ _Cabrón_ , ‘urry up and finish your work.” Silva says, closing his eyes again, the syllables muddled in half-consciousness.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of Villa’s fingers clacking on keys and Silva’s even, drawn-out breathing. Villa’s thinking that he could stay like this for a while, the breeze whistling through the shades, the reassuring weight of Silva’s head on his chest, their feet tangled beneath the sheets -

Then the screaming starts.

Villa doesn’t react at first. The screams are like an animal’s, high in pitch, cold, bathed in pain. It takes a second for him to process it, recognise it as a mangled version of his own daughter’s voice. It takes a while because it’s terrifying, because his Olaya should never make a sound like that.

Then he’s shoving the laptop off his knees, swinging his legs to the floor and taking off at a sprint.

*

“Go get Luca,” Silva says, all trace of sleep gone from his voice, just as Luca’s cries begin to fill the hallway. “I got this. Go.”

Villa casts one last worried, upset glance at Olaya’s door, before nodding tersely and ducking into the door on his right.

“Daddy? What happened?” Zaida peeks out from her room, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Zaida,” Villa plants a kiss on her hair. “Nothing’s wrong.” He herds her back to her room.

She stumbles back into her bed, curiosity overridden by sleepiness.

*

“Papa!” Olaya screams, when Silva clicks the light on. She’s cowering in one corner of the room, face tracked with tears, splotchy red, heartbreaking. Silva gathers her into his arms, carrying her back to her bed. He smooths down her hair and presses his lips to her forehead.

“Olaya,” Silva soothes, “it’s okay. Whatever it was, it’s okay now. I’m here and you’re safe.”

Silva holds her until her cries subside into ragged hiccups. Her stuffed egg plushie, Leo, ends up squished between their bodies.

“What happened, nena?” Silva asks, gently, because he doesn’t want to prod.

“There was a monster and it had black eyes and two big teeth and four scary hands and sharp tails and it was reaching out for me and I couldn’t move and I yelled for you and Daddy but the monster said it ate you and I was all alone and I couldn’t move -” Olaya buries her face in Silva’s shirt.

“Shh, Olaya, it was a nightmare. It wasn’t real.” An irrational part of Silva insists his daughter is too young for nightmares, wishes he could stop her from ever experiencing them again.

Silva starts to stand up -

“No, Papa!” Olaya nearly bursts into tears again, clumsy fingers grasping Silva’s palm. “Papa - don’t leave me here. Papa, please -”

Silva bends back down to kiss her head. He stretches to switch off the room light. “Wasn’t planning to, Olaya. I’ll be here. Shh.  _Que tengas dulces sueños_.”

*

When Villa finally rocks Luca back to sleep, it’s a little after one o’clock. He gently lays Luca back in his cot and tiptoes to Olaya’s room, just to check.

He turns the knob slowly, careful not to make a sound.

Silva’s lying on the bed, body curved inwards, wrapping Olaya in a cocoon of his own body. His back is turned to Villa, so all he sees is the pliant sweep of Silva’s profile, hollowed out in the glow of the yellow night-light, tracing from the feathers of his hair to the curl of his lashes and dip of his bones, stark against the mostly pitch-black backdrop. His daughter’s sandy brown hair, fanned out on the turquoise sheets, framing her face, peaceful and somehow even sweeter in sleep. Her chest rising and sinking, in time with the restless flutter of her lashes. Silva’s singing something softly, over and over again, without tripping on the lyrics. The rhythm Villa recognises from when Silva hums meaninglessly - in the car, through the shower curtain, standing over Luca’s cot - it’s without much of a tune, but the words vibrate in a gorgeous, silvery language.

This inexpressible, almost painful feeling blooming throughout his chest - he doesn’t know what to call this, this - making his whole body feel light and yet he’s never been so aware of the heavy way his heart beats, speeds up and spills over itself like he’s young and stupid again -

Villa realises he can put a name to it.

*

_Arrorró niño chiquito_

_que tu madre no está aquí,_

_que fue a misa a San Antonio_

_y ella pronto ha de venir._

_Arrorró niño chiquito_

_arrorró que viene el coco_

_y dice que a buscar viene_

_los niños que duermen poco._

 

\-- “Arrorró”, Spanish lullaby from the Canary Islands

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. OP I'm soooo sorry! This has dragged on for too long ;___; and it isn't even that good I am ashamed.  
> 2\. Any mistakes/errors/butchering of the Spanish language is mine and my fault alone. I'm too sleepy right now so please comment if you've found any mistakes!  
> 3\. I wrote the entire fic staring at [this picture which I will now share with you.](http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2012/293/b/7/david_villa_and_zaida_by_saro75-d5ick2j.png)  
> 4\. If y'all like this I'll write a sequel/prequel. Or something.


End file.
